


Hit Me With Your Best Shot

by tellthemstories



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Grantaire is the worst assassin ever, M/M, but it's all bossuet's fault, this fic is ridiculous, what is the assassin version of stockholm syndrome?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-24 17:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellthemstories/pseuds/tellthemstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fourteen times Grantaire tried to kill Enjolras. </p><p>And one time he fell in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](http://pylad.es/post/59036096270/orestesfasting-orestesfasting-im-gonna) prompt from orestesfasting (I'm so, so sorry, this is probably not what you wanted at all)
> 
> For reference, [this](http://robinhook.tumblr.com/post/53361182551/buttersutter-clock-tower-converted-into-a) is Enjolras's apartment. Also, thanks to [Nyargles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/pseuds/nyargles) as always for being my beta.

 

Grantaire gets the call at eleven o’clock at night. He’s on his eighth beer and weighing up the pros and cons of garroting the teenage girl with the annoying laugh who stumbled in with her group of friends just over ten minutes ago.  It’s not that he doesn’t think he should do it (he definitely thinks he should do it), he’s just wondering whether or not it’s worth the effort of separating her from her friends and then hiding the body.

Also, Joly’s been telling him that he needs to start being more tolerant of people, no matter how annoying they are.

The phone in his pocket buzzes again, annoying and tinny. It’s a old ancient thing he picked up at a market just over a month ago, more closely resembling a brick than a phone, with no internet connection to speak of and a screen that was invented before colour. But it has Snake. Grantaire fucking loves Snake.

He does _not_ fucking love getting calls in the middle of bars when he is well on his way to getting completely smashed. The girl in the corner screeches with laughter again and he downs what’s left of his beer, then hits answer and picks up the phone. “R speaking.”

“Oh, Grantaire, thank fuck,” rushes the voice on the other end, “There’s been a problem, I need a favour.”

“Oh, really,” he replies, lifting his free hand to get the attention of the guy behind the bar, ordering another beer. “And what’s that?”

“Bossuet’s been - well, there’s been an issue. We’re in the hospital right now, but - that’s not the point. There’s a mark, tomorrow, but he won’t be able to make it. There’s a lot of blood.”

The guy behind the bar puts another beer down in front of him and Grantaire curls his fingers around the glass, takes a long drink as Joly has a conversation with a doctor on the other end of the line, trying to explain why his friend is covered in blood without revealing that they are both assassins. Finally, he presses the phone to his ear again and says, “Are you still there?”

“No.”

“Grantaire - look, he’ll be fine, he’ll be back up in a few days. He just needs someone to take this mark for him. It’s all set up, he’s done the recon; if you stop by later you can pick up the gear and the info from our place. Just one shot, the mark’s gone and Bossuet splits the money with you, 50-50.”

“80-20.”

“60-40.”

“70-30. I don’t have to do this,” Grantaire reminds him, “Covering Bossuet’s ass is not in my job description.”

Joly sighs on the other end of the line and there’s the sound of rustling as he moves the phone from one ear to the other. “Take this mark for him and he’ll cover for you next time you’re too drunk to hold a gun.”

It’s a good deal.  “Alright,” he says, “I’ll do it.”

\- - -

Which is how he ends up perched on the roof of a building at five o’clock in the fucking morning, nursing the hangover from hell and chain-smoking his way through a pack of cigarettes. It’s his own fault for being stubborn and staying out drinking despite having a job the next day, but it’s much easier to blame Bossuet and so he does.

Really, who cuts an artery by shaving? At eleven o’clock at night? He’s known Joly and Bossuet for long enough now that he knows they get up to some pretty kinky stuff in their free time but seriously. And speaking of ridiculous things, what sort of name is Enjolras anyway? A name like that just screams for someone to kill him.

It’s setting out to be one of those warm, bright mornings, when the sun pours in through the window and sets dust motes to twinkling in the air. When old men whistle as they walk down the street and birds chirp in the trees.

Grantaire _loathes_ mornings like this.

It’s just one more reason to kill this guy.

He’s not actually sure what the reason is behind this hit, but that’s nothing new. Since the moment he got into this line of work, it's been his policy to shoot first and ask questions - well, never. He doesn’t care who he’s killing so long as he gets paid at the end of it, and this time is no different. So he lines up his rifle, adjusts the scope and checks his watch again.

The fact that this guy gets up every morning at five o’clock in the morning is strike three, as far as Grantaire’s concerned. Five am should only exist when approached from the night before, when a long night out dawns into morning, not as a time someone willingly wakes up.

He has his sight focused on the window to the penthouse apartment (strike four) where this guy lives, waiting for the moment he opens the curtains. It’s a morning ritual, Bossuet’s notes had said, so it’s only a matter of time. It’s the habits that catch people out, things they do every day without realising, making them easy to track down and kill. It’s the reason Grantaire lives as varied a life as he can, sleeping and waking when he feels like it, crashing on friends' sofas and occasionally just up and disappearing for a few weeks. His one constant is alcohol and cigarettes.

Which is ironic, as they can kill him just as easily.

The curtains twitch, drawing him out of his thoughts and he curls his finger around the trigger. Bossuet’s notes had listed the guy as 5’10”, so he makes a minute adjustment to the rifle, calculating in the air resistance and drop in height between buildings, and takes a breath.  The curtains are thrown wide and his first thought is that this guy is closer to 5’8” -  and it’s the only sensible thought he has before his brain whites out.

Because holy shit.   _Holy shit_ is this guy hot. Grantaire hasn’t drawn or painted in years but his hands itch for something now, oil paints maybe, to capture the golden blonde of his hair, the impossible blue of his eyes. The scope of the gun allows him to see everything in closer detail, the way his curls are not quite perfect near the nape of his neck, flattened from sleep, and how his chest rises and falls with his breathing.

Grantaire wasn’t even aware they _made_ people like that anymore.

The guy stretches in front of the window, arms reaching up to the ceiling of his building, hip bones jutting out above his boxers and Grantaire wonders, absently, if he really is a natural blonde, as his eyes travel along the line of hair leading down from his navel that disappears -- “Shit, fuck,” he swears violently, as he remembers exactly what it was he was supposed to do, and his finger curls around the trigger again, only the guy is moving away from the window and, “Shit,” he curses again. He’s missed his chance.

He’s never missed a mark before in his life.

This might be a problem.

\- - -

So he sets up a second hit. Bossuet’s notes are nothing if not meticulous and this guy - Enjolras, god, it’s still a dumb name - is as routine as clockwork. Grantaire ditches the sniper rifle and replaces it with a handgun and downs a bottle of whiskey he liberated from a businessman’s drinks cabinet on an earlier assignment. It tastes like woodsmoke and caramel and leaves a faint burning aftertaste, which makes him wonder just what Enjolras might taste like if he dragged his tongue over the creamy-white skin that looked like it had been carved out of marble, felt the burn from faint line of stubble on his jaw.

Okay, so this is definitely a problem.

It turns out Enjolras meets regularly with his friends three times a week at some place with a pretentious French name and is always the last to leave, usually alone. Grantaire stakes the place out and finds it in a pretty unsavoury part of town, where the police just accept crime from gangs as a regular part of life, which will make covering his tracks easy enough. He leans back against the wall, lights a cigarette and waits.

It’s nearing midnight when the door finally opens to let the group out. Grantaire pulls his gun out slowly, takes off the safety and steps back into the shadows, disappearing from view.

Enjolras is the last one out, as expected, but what Grantaire hadn’t planned for was the streetlights. Which, ordinarily, he wouldn’t care about at all. But the instant Enjolras steps into the circle of light thrown down by one, he starts to wonder why he’s never noticed them before because fucking _hell_ the things they can do for someone’s cheekbones and the sharp line of their jaw.

Charcoal, he thinks suddenly, to draw proper attention to the shadows and angles and contrast with the soft curls of his hair and the ridiculously perfect skin. Charcoal is messy and rough would stain his fingers, but it would give texture and life and make you imagine what the portrait would look like, bursting with colour.

By the time he’s finished thinking about charcoal portraits, Enjolras has disappeared down the street and is nowhere in sight.

“Oh for the love of—”

\- - -

His third attempt is so pathetic it’s not even worth mentioning.

\- - -

He’s starting to get a bit desperate by the time it comes to his fourth attempt, so he can’t exactly be held accountable for what happens.

The alcohol. The alcohol can be held accountable.

It’s late in the evening two days later when he makes his way into the Musain in preparation for whatever it is Enjolras and his friends do here every other night. His original plan is to just sit at the back, to fade into the shadows and wait for an opening, to catch him unawares when he leaves or goes to the toilet, but the minute he walks into the Musain he realises it would look strange if he didn’t buy a drink and he definitely doesn’t want to stand out. So he might have bought one. Or several. Who’s counting?

When Enjolras walks in there’s an immediate hush in the bar that Grantaire initially puts down to his body’s seeming inability to do anything sensible when he’s around, but then he realises that the silence is actually a thing and he thinks _what the fuck_. Then the guy opens his mouth and starts talking and that’s the exact moment Grantaire realises he’s screwed.

He even has a perfect voice. One of those voices that burns with passions and ideals, with perfect enunciation — and now all he wants to know is what that voice will sound like when it’s absolutely wrecked and hoarse from saying _yes, there, please, harder, faster._

Add to the list of reasons he needs to kill this guy: perfect voice.

This is definitely not just a meeting of friends but something else entirely, and Grantaire realises the only reason he’s been able to stay is because he’s currently got his head pillowed on his arms and they all think he’s passed-out drunk. He wonders if maybe this is the reason someone’s called a hit out on this guy, because this whole meeting is definitely, well — _revolutionary_.

They’re talking about overthrowing governments and staging protests and _holy shit_ they’re actually serious.

It leaves him in a stunned sort of stupor as he listens to the debates going on around him, the reasons why they cannot stand for injustice and how they might possibly change the world. It’s not often that he’s left speechless but this - this is crazy. He can’t believe people actually believe in this, but they do, and the meeting goes on for hours, until finally Enjolras wraps it up with a rousing speech about the future and they all get up to leave.

It’s obvious that he’s the leader of this - whatever this is - the one they’re putting their faith in, the one with the ideals and the bigger plan, but Grantaire just doesn’t get it. Doesn’t having a leader negate what they’re trying to do? He uncurls from his slump over the table finally, and realises he’s still holding his glass tightly.

“And who put you in charge? Who gave you the right to decide what everyone wants?”

Fuck, had he said that out-loud?

There are only a few people left when he speaks, Enjolras and two other men who are just about to leave. The blonde makes a motion with his hand towards the two of them, telling them to go ahead, and then turns the full force of his too-blue eyes on Grantaire.

“Excuse me?”

Well, he’s done it now. He might as well throw himself into it. “You heard me. Who put you in charge? Was there a _vote_?” he feels his lips twist at the suggestion, and he clenches and unclenches his hand around the beer glass he’s still holding.  

Enjolras glances down at it then looks back up at him, frowning, and says, “Are you drunk?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point. The point is you’re wrong, so very, very wrong. About everything.”

This time it’s Enjolras’s lips that curve, into something that almost resembles a smile — only it can’t be, because that would be ridiculous. “Oh?” he asks, and he leans one hip against the edge of Grantaire’s table and crosses his arms over his chest, waiting for him to elaborate.

Oh, bollocks. Grantaire takes a breath and gets to his feet, only that brings them far too close together, one more step and they would be touching, and all he can think is _I could kill you now and you wouldn’t even see it coming_ , and he has the knife in the sleeve of his jacket, ready, because it’s his job and he’s been paid to do it and he’s good at it. All he has to do is twist his wrist and step forwards and he could slice it across that perfect throat—

But he doesn’t.

He can’t.

Not when this guy is so _wrong_ about _everything_. He has to make him see, he has to make him understand. So he twists his wrist so the knife stays hidden and begins tearing into the arguments Enjolras has been making all night.

They end up staying in the Musain for several more hours, debating back and forth. Kant, Hume, Nietzche, it doesn’t matter, they disagree on everything. They even disagree on Grantaire walking home, because Enjolras tells him that these streets aren’t ‘safe’ which is hilarious on so many levels, but none of which Enjolras would understand, so Grantaire just laughs and tells him that chivalry is dead, which sets off another round of arguments that ends only when he finally gets Enjolras into a taxi and sends him back to his apartment with a promise that they will continue this later.

He makes his own way back to his apartment by himself then, his mind buzzing with things he hadn’t said and lines of argument he will follow tomorrow, and collapses into a dead sleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

It’s no surprise, then, when he wakes up at four in the morning and realises he still hasn’t killed Enjolras and goes, “FUCK!”

\- - -

The fifth time he goes back to the Musain, but this time he’s sober, and they still end up arguing.

\- - -

It becomes something of a routine. Grantaire plans how to kill him, works out how to do it, goes to the Musain, buys several drinks, downs several drinks and then gets into an argument with Enjolras. In his defence, it’s not his fault, the man is just so stupidly, stupidly optimistic. He thinks he can actually change the world and isn’t afraid to try and do it, even though being so outspoken about politicians and corruption is going to get him killed.

Literally. As Grantaire has been _hired to do it_.

\- - -

The tenth time he actually draws his gun and gets it pointed at the back of Enjolras’s head.

They’re walking back through the town on what has become a regular habit for them after the meetings at the Musain (he has a fucking routine now, dear god), when Enjolras gets a phone call from one of the others. He ducks into an alley to take it, turns his back to Grantaire as he presses the phone to his ear and listens to what’s being said.

It’s the best opportunity Grantaire’s had since this all began. There’s no one around and they’re still in the shady part of town, so he can steal his wallet afterwards and leave his body in the alley and the cops will put it down to a mugging gone wrong. It’ll be portrayed as Enjolras’s own fault for being out this late by himself.

So he draws the gun and points it at the back of Enjolras’s head and curls his finger around the trigger, takes a breath ready to exhale and then there’s a loud _crash!_ and a startled screech as an alleycat goes shooting past him. Enjolras whirls around on the spot to see what the noise is and frowns when he comes face-to-face with Grantaire’s gun.

“It’s nothing, Grantaire just startled a cat,” he says to Combeferre, eyes locked with Grantaire’s, past the gun. “I’ll call you back when I get home? Right, okay. Bye.” He swipes his thumb across the screen to cancel the call and then slips it into his pocket.

“Um,” says Grantaire.

“I was wondering when this was going to happen,” says Enjolras.

Which is just — “You _knew_?”

“You’re not exactly the most aware of your surroundings when you’re drunk,” Enjolras replies, quirking an eyebrow at him, “Courfeyrac felt your holster when he hugged you. Jehan saw your knife when he took your arm to start writing poetry on it. Combeferre noted you tailing me just over a week ago. We’ve known for a while that they would eventually send someone after me, it was just a matter of working out who it was.”

“I - you - what?” Grantaire asks, faltering as he tries to get his head around it. The seemingly innocent group of friends in the Musain, the revolutionaries who were always just talking about a better future, they had actually been watching him, scoping him out, discovered that he was an assassin? He feels very suddenly betrayed, the fuckers.

Shaking his head, he focuses on Enjolras again and says, “Why let me in then? Why let me get close?”

“Why not?” replies Enjolras, shrugging a shoulder. He spreads his hands out in front of him, palms up as he says, “If I can’t convince you, a person who actually wants to kill me, to our way of thinking, to our vision of a better future, then I’m not good enough to be the leader of the revolution.”

Oh he’s good, he’s very good. “That’s all very noble and self-sacrificing of you, but that doesn’t change the facts. I could still kill you right now if I wanted.”

“You could,” says Enjolras, frustratingly calm, ”But you won’t.”

It’s a challenge, a taunt, and Grantaire almost responds to it - but then his mind flashes back to the conversation Enjolras just had on the phone. The way he’d said, _Grantaire_ , and he knows that if he took the shot now Combeferre would have made some sort of recording, and they would check the call duration with the time of death and it would be all too obvious who did it.

“Oh, you bastard,” he swears, and Enjolras grins.

Which is how he manages to get a gun pointed at Enjolras’s head and still doesn’t kill him.

\- - -

He decides to go and see Joly and Bossuet.

Bossuet’s got a thick bandage wrapped around his neck but is as cheerful as ever when he opens the door to the apartment he shares with Joly. “Hey, R,” he grins and steps back to let him into the hall. Grantaire follows him in, throwing his jacket over the back of the sofa as he heads through to the kitchen where Joly’s making coffee.

“Hey,” he greets, glancing back, “Coffee?”

“Yeah. Bitter, black, strong.”

“I’m a taken man,” Bossuet replies, grinning, and drops down into a chair at the table. “So did you get the mark?”

“Y-eees?” Grantaire attempts to lie, then breaks almost immediately and admits, “No.”

Joly drops the mug he’s holding. “What?”

“You - are you serious?” Bossuet asks, “You’ve never—”

“Missed a mark, I know.” Grantaire groans and slumps down in a chair. “It’s just - if you saw him, you’d understand.  He has this — _face_.”

“Most people do,” Joly replies, as he brushes the shattered pieces of mug from the counter into his hand. “I’d be more surprised if he didn’t.”

“No, you don’t understand,” replies Grantaire, “His face is different.”

“He’s got a broken nose?” suggests Bossuet.

“A beauty spot?” tries Joly.

“A third eye?”

“He’s got fangs?”

“He can wiggle his ears?”

“He’s—”

“No, shut up, you don’t understand,” Grantaire replies, “It’s just very—” He makes a few vague motions in the direction of his face and then gives up.  When Joly hands him the coffee he curls his hands around the mug and looks morosely down into it as if it holds the answer to all the world’s secrets.

“Are you _going_ to do the job?” Joly asks after a pause, “Bossuet’s out for a while but I—”

“No!” Grantaire replies sharply, “I mean - yes. I mean. No, I don’t need you to take over. I can do this. I just - need to find a different way to do it, that’s all.”

\- - -

Which is how he ends up breaking into Enjolras’s apartment.

Joly trained as a doctor before becoming an assassin, and so his specialism lies in more humane ways of dispatching people. He prefers to leave guns and knives to people like Bossuet and Grantaire, instead using poison and overdoses to kill marks. It’s from him Grantaire gets the colourless liquid, something he is assured is tasteless and has no smell and will disappear instantly in whatever liquid Grantaire chooses to pour it into.

The rest of the equipment is his, leather gloves and hairpins that he’s had since he was breaking into cars at seventeen for kicks, stealing to order for a quick bit of cash.

He chooses a time when he knows Enjolras will be out at work and heads over to his apartment block, a converted clock tower that is far too pretentious for its own good. He makes a mental note to bring this up with Enjolras next time he sees him - why spend all that money on your rent when it can be going to the cause - and then remembers, oh, right, if this works there won’t be a next time.

The security guard on the door is familiar enough with him now that he lets him through without blinking and he’s lucky enough to get into the lift alone. He presses the button for the top floor and leans back against the mirrored wall as he waits. When the doors finally ding, he feels a rush of anticipation, the spark of adrenaline that always comes with a job about to be complete.

He skirts past the camera mounted on the wall, finds the angle where its blind spot is and is able to twist it into a position that isn’t facing at Enjolras’s door. Satisfied, he heads over to the door and drops down to his knees, unrolling the leather pouch he keeps his lock-picking hairpins in and sets to work. He wants to light a cigarette but fire alarms are far too fucking efficient these days, so he satisfies his oral fixation by sticking a few of the pins between his lips, chewing on the ends absently.

He puts one hand on the door to hold it steady and reaches for a pin with his other and — falls through the doorway onto shiny, wooden floor.

“What the fuck?” he demands, spitting hairpins. In front of him the door just swings open, revealing the rest of the apartment. Which is - pretty nice, actually, but that’s not the point - just weird, until his brain finally catches up and he breathes, “No fucking way.”

He gets his legs under him and pushes himself to his feet, turning to catch the edge of the door to inspect it.

There is no lock whatsoever on Enjolras’s door.

“Are you for _real?”_ Grantaire demands, and then he pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials.

\- - -

When Enjolras returns home from his day at work, he finds a man he doesn’t know sat in the doorway to his apartment, drilling a lock into place on his door whilst Grantaire sits on his sofa, feet propped up on the coffee table, typing away at a laptop.

“ _What_ ,” says Enjolras.

“Oh, you’re home,” Grantaire replies, glancing up. “Don’t mind Frank, he’s nearly done.”

“Is that my laptop?”

“Yes. You really need to upgrade to the 21st century, this thing is ancient. Also, ‘Robespierre’? Not a secure password.”

Enjolras makes a choked sort of noise somewhere in the back of his throat, and Frank gets to his feet, brushing his hands down on his overalls.  “All done,” he says, “You’re now secure. You sorted out the money?”

“Just sent it over,” says Grantaire, spinning the laptop screen around to show him.

“Is that my - did you hack into my bank account?” Enjolras practically shrieks.

Grantaire gives him a long, considering look as Frank gathers his things into his toolbox and leaves the apartment. “Yes,” he replies, “But I don’t know why you’re mad. Were you aware you didn’t even have a lock on your door? Someone could just walk right in and kill you.”

There is a brief silence for a few seconds. Enjolras appears to be trying to remember how to breathe before he says, “If someone really wants to break in, a lock isn’t going to stop them, not if they’ve already gotten past security and the cameras.”

“Yes, but that’s not the point,” replies Grantaire, snapping the laptop shut and putting it down on the coffee table, “See, it takes all the fun out of it when you can just walk right in. I’m a professional, I have standards. I can’t just waltz on in here like that and poison your milk. That would be far too easy. I need a bit of a challenge.”

“A bit of a challenge,” echoes Enjolras, at which point the timer goes off in the kitchen.

Grantaire bounds to his feet at that and heads towards it, saying, “I made dinner. I figured you were the vegan type, what with all your saving the world spiel so I found some sort of tofu recipe on the internet. It looks pretty edible, if tasteless, but if that’s what works for you then hey.”

Enjolras is left blinking in the living room, wondering what the fuck just happened.

\- - -

The next time he almost kills Enjolras, he decides to do it late at night when he’s sleepy and so his defences are down. Which in hindsight, probably wasn’t his best idea, because a sleepy Enjolras is an adorable Enjolras and a sleepy Enjolras likes to curl up in warm places like a cat.

“ _What,_ ” says Grantaire, when he looks down and finds Enjolras curled up against him on the sofa.

They had been watching a film on Netflix. (“I don’t even have Netflix,” Enjolras had said, upon walking into his apartment to find Grantaire there, _again_. “Don’t worry, I signed you up,” Grantaire had reassured him from the kitchen, where he was making popcorn.) Initially Enjolras had refused, muttering about how he had things to do and a revolution to plan, but he had eventually given in and they’d made it all the way through to the credits.

At which point he’d decided he was incredibly tired and had fallen asleep on Grantaire.

Grantaire looks down at him now and thinks, _this is it_. This is the moment. Carefully, he puts the bowl of popcorn he’s holding down on the floor by the sofa, flexes his fingers and then curls them around Enjolras’s neck. Snapping someone’s neck has never been his preferred method of killing someone, but sometimes it’s all you have.

Only Enjolras must be really fucking out of it, because he makes a soft noise at the back of his throat and turns into Grantaire’s grip, one of his own hands coming up to rest on Grantaire’s, and instead of pressing down on pulse points, Grantaire thinks instead about how soft his skin is. It is pretty much exactly like the marble statue he looks like, smooth and unblemished and cold—

He should probably get a blanket.

He makes a move to get off the sofa to go and find one, but Enjolras just frowns in his sleep and tightens his grip on his hand, keeping him in place.  Grantaire sighs and mutters, “Fine, I’m staying,” and shifts slightly to get more comfortable as his own eyes slip closed.

He wakes up several hours later alone on the sofa, a blanket tucked under his chin and a note from Enjolras to say he’s gone out to work.

God _damn_ it.

\- - -

Attempts twelve and thirteen go about as well as expected.

\- - -

(“Are you aware,” says Bahorel, “That there is a guy sharpening knives in your living room?”

Enjolras sighs.)

\- - -

Enjolras’s landlord comes over during attempt fourteen, when Grantaire is in the middle of setting up a complicated system of blindfolds and leather straps in Enjolras’s bedroom. Usually this equipment is used for interrogation, but Grantaire is nothing if not creative, and this way Enjolras will kill himself in his sleep and Grantaire won’t have to worry about things like _forgetting how to think_ when he sees his face.

Then the front door opens and he hears footsteps in the living room. Confused (Enjolras isn’t due home for another two hours) he walks out of the bedroom to find a man he doesn’t know staring back at him.

For a few seconds they just stare at eachother, and the man’s eyes travel to the leather strap he currently has dangling around his neck and the ball gag he’s holding in his other hand. “You know what?” he says, “I don’t even want to know.”

Probably a wise decision, Grantaire thinks absently.

“Anyway, rent’s due.”

Grantaire shrugs and hands over the cash without thinking twice, and is therefore rather miffed later on that night when Enjolras walks into his bedroom and flips his shit over the ‘modifications’, seeing as technically the apartment is now half his?

Because apparently Grantaire just moved in.

Wait — what?

_Fuck._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hi!](http://tell-themstories.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half of this fic is for [crackinwise](http://crackinwise.tumblr.com/post/59090296582/orestesfasting-orestesfasting) who extended the original prompt (aha I'm sorry, this is probably not what you were expecting either).

So Grantaire unofficially moves in, but it doesn’t really change much. They still argue, all the time.

Only they debate philosophy whilst making breakfast in the morning and bicker over who has to do the grocery shopping. Grantaire drinks straight from the carton of orange juice in the fridge - not because it’s any better, but purely because it irritates Enjolras - and Enjolras leaves his files and folders everywhere so Grantaire trips over them at the most annoying times.

They fall asleep together on the sofa watching films and argue over whether Grantaire’s allowed to keep his guns in the cupboard next to the sink.

He’s up to number twenty-six on his list of reasons why someone needs to kill Enjolras: the strands of blond hair that are always clogging up the drain in the shower, only that’s tempered somewhat by a new list he’s created entitled ‘cute shit Enjolras does when he’s sleep deprived’ which includes cuddles and pouting and being unable to formulate an argument beyond ‘no you’.

It’s a pretty normal arrangement they have going, attempted-murder aside.

\- - -

“Do you even have another home?” Enjolras asks when he walks past the open-plan kitchen one morning to find Grantaire cooking breakfast.

“I bought groceries!” Grantaire announces cheerfully, as he flings things into a frying pan, “See, I was walking past the supermarket and I figured I’d drop in because I needed some milk and then I remembered that last time I came over, you had zero edible stuff in your fridge so I was like hey, I should probably fix that. You know, for if I ever try and poison you again.”

“Right,” says Enjolras and carries on walking.

A few minutes later he backtracks and says, “Wait, what happened to my—”

“I said _edible_ stuff,” Grantaire says, without looking at him. “Tofu and kale, not edible.”

“Tofu and kale are perfectly edible, they—”

“Breakfast!” Grantaire announces, flipping french toast out with alarming skill and then handing it to him. Enjolras swears and juggles it about, grabbing a sheet of kitchen roll to stop it burning his hands and Grantaire says, “Now get going or you’re going to be late.”

“What?” he glances over at the clock to see that he is, indeed, about to be late, and snatches his coat up from the sofa, practically running out the door.

“Have a good day at work!” Grantaire yells after him.

It takes him a while to reailse he should have poisoned the food _before_ giving it to Enjolras. Oh, damn it.

\- - -

“Um,” Courfeyrac says one afternoon, when Grantaire goes waltzing through the living room in only a towel and begins rooting around in the fridge for something. Enjolras ignores him.

Grantaire makes a frustrated noise a few seconds later and asks, “Do we have any orange juice left?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras replies, focused on the plans spread out on the coffee table in front of him. “There’s a new carton at the back.”

Combeferre coughs discreetly and Enjolras finally glances up, to see his two best friends staring back at him. “What?” he asks.  Courfeyrac quirks an eyebrow at him and then tilts his head in the direction of the still half-naked Grantaire.

Oh. Enjolras frowns. “He paid the last installment of rent,” he explains.

“I also bought the groceries!” Grantaire hollers from the kitchen.

“Which means he thinks he owns half of everything,” Enjolras continues, rolling his eyes, and points to the plans again. “So—”

“So get your feet off my coffee table,” Grantaire orders Courfeyrac gleefully, appearing next to Enjolras suddenly. “Also that is an awful plan.”

“It’s not your — pardon?”

“The plan,” Grantaire says, leaning past him to point at the papers spread over the table. He coughs meaningfully at Courfeyrac, who lifts his feet from the table finally after a glance at Enjolras, and then taps his finger on the document he reveals.  “Trust me, I know a lot about subterfuge and getting in and out of somewhere without being noticed. That’s not possible. What you want to do is—”

Which is how instead of spending the afternoon planning how to kill Enjolras, Grantaire spends the afternoon helping the holy trinity plan to do more things that will _make_ someone want to kill him. Whoops.

\- - -

And then he goes and saves Enjolras’s life.

He doesn’t _mean_ to. It just sort of - happens.  He’s buying his things from an art shop down the street from where Enjolras works, under the guise of trailing him to better find out his habits, when he sees Enjolras step out of his building and into the street.

This is another reason he’s so ridiculous; who even notices someone step out of a door three buildings away? He shoves the money at the shop owner, grabs his supplies and heads back out onto the street just in time to see Enjolras step out in front of moving traffic.

The next few seconds are a blur of adrenaline and shouts and the squeal of tyres on tarmac as someone hits their brakes, then the sharp stab of pain as his kneecaps hit stone when he slams Enjolras down onto the pavement and out of danger. Paint supplies roll into the gutter as people gasp and mutter around them and Enjolras looks up at him with his stupidly-blue eyes.

He looks a bit dazed. Grantaire supposes that will happen if someone slams your head into the ground, and wonders if maybe that counts as an assassination attempt. Probably not, as it wasn’t intentional. Still stuck at fourteen failed attempts, then.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras says, and one of his hands comes up to rest on his forearm, hesitant.

“Did no one tell you to look both ways before crossing the street?” Grantaire demands, and he sounds slightly hysterical, even to his own ears.  “You could have been killed!”

Enjolras just continues to stare at him. Probably because he has some sort of concussion.

“Come on, up you get,” he says, pushing himself to his feet and offering a hand to Enjolras so he can help him get back to the apartment.

Beyond thinking that Enjolras needs to go back to school because _clearly_ , someone wasn’t listening when being taught about road safety, Grantaire doesn’t think twice about the incident. Why would he? People get run over in the street all the time, it’s not like it was on purpose.

\- - -

It was definitely on purpose.

\- - -

Now that he’s got to pay rent, he has to actually take on some other jobs. He can’t remember the last time he paid rent; he considers himself a free spirit (free _loader_ , Bossuet will say), floating from one place to another, crashing on sofas and in cars and in other people’s beds. He’s got a flat of his own, but it’s more of a weapons den than anything else.

The only problem is that these jobs tend to take him out late at night for hours at a time, and exhaust him almost completely. His room is at the other end of the apartment, which always seems an ocean away when he drags his tired feet through the front door,  but tonight, just.

The door to Enjolras’s room makes no sound as he pushes it open, but Enjolras still stirs and wakes up, somehow, blinking sleep out of his eyes as he mumbles, “R?”

“Mm,” Grantaire confirms, because actual syllables feel like a real effort right now, and begins peeling off his clothes.  Enjolras must be still half asleep, because he doesn’t say anything, just lies on his side and watches, his eyes half-closed.

The last few steps over to the bed seem to take an eternity but Grantaire makes it eventually, sinking down onto the mattress and burrowing under the covers, which seems to wake Enjolras up some more, as he frowns and then opens his eyes, wider.

“No complaining,” Grantaire orders, sleepy, already drifting off.

“You have your own bedroom,” Enjolras points out. He sounds a bit weak.

“Yeah, but your bed is comfier,” Grantaire says, burrowing his face down into the pillow, “So shut up and let me sleep.”

Enjolras shifts on the bed beside him, a small movement, and Grantaire expects another argument.  Instead, there is silence, and the sound of two heartbeats racing in the dark, and then finally, Enjolras’s breathing evens out as he falls back to sleep.  

Which is how they end up sharing a bed.

\- - -

“Um,” says Enjolras, when he wakes up one morning later in the week to find Grantaire draped unceremoniously across him, hands curled into the fabric of the t-shirt he wears to bed.

Grantaire stirs and nuzzles closer into the warmth of Enjolras’s body, refusing to surface from sleep, but now that he’s conscious, the gears in his mind are slowly starting to turn, his senses making him aware of just what - or who - he’s sleeping on. He blinks once, twice, and then his eyes snap open finally to take account of his surroundings.

Very slowly he becomes aware of the way he’s gripping Enjolras’s shirt and he uncurls his fingers slowly, though his hands stay on Enjolras’s chest as he pushes himself up on an elbow to look at him. They are traitorous things, his hands.

Enjolras quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Strangulation,” Grantaire offers, his fingers curling slightly into Enjolras’s shoulders, “I was planning to - strangle.”

“Strangle what? My t-shirt?”

“Your neck,” Grantaire replies, eyes narrowing because he does not appreciate humour at this time in the morning, “I was getting there.”  He slides his hands higher up Enjolras’s chest to demonstrate, and instead hears the slight hitch in the blond’s breathing when his fingertips find his pulse.

“Right,” says Enjolras, and he sounds far less composed now, but he’s still half smiling as he says, “You know suffocation would have been a better cover story.”

“Cover story? I don’t know what you’re—”  He cuts off sharply when Enjolras shifts, pressing their hips together, and it suddenly becomes painfully aware that other parts of their body are far more awake than Grantaire feels right now.  “Oh,” he says, weakly.

Which is when the window explodes.

Grantaire’s instincts have always been quicker than his thoughts and so it’s those that wrap himself and Enjolras up in the bedsheet as he rolls them both off the bed and onto the floor. The bullet, which would have hit Enjolras straight between the eyes, tears a hole through his pillow instead, sending feathers clouding up into the air.

A dead silence follows, heavy and oppressive, and Grantaire becomes suddenly aware of the way he’s lying on his back on the floor, wrapped up in a bedsheet with Enjolras, whose knees are bracketing his hips, hands pressed against his chest.

“What the hell?” demands Enjolras, and his eyes are wild and there’s spots of red high on his cheeks, fury and confusion and frustration all moulding into one as he goes, “I thought you fucking stopped this!”

And Grantaire, where he’s lying on the floor with shards of glass crunching under his body whenever he moves, realises his hands are shaking, with a combination of both fear and fury. “That wasn’t me,” he says, and when he glances up, Enjolras is staring down at him.

“That was someone else,” he explains, “Another assassin.”

What the _fuck_?

\- - -

“Someone tried to kill Enjolras,” he tells Bossuet and Joly later that evening, after walking Enjolras to the door of Musain and being assured multiple times by Combeferre that he would make sure Enjolras gets back to his apartment safely, and multiple eyerolls from Enjolras when he told him to stay the fuck away from windows.

They glance at each other, then back at him. “We know,” says Joly, and Grantaire chokes on his drink.

“What?” he gasps, when he’s finished hacking, “You know?”

“Yes,” Bossuet replies, and why is he looking at him like he’s just grown a second head? Wait, it’s not the two of them, is it? They’re not trying to kill Enjolras, are they? Shit, Grantaire’s not sure he can deal with having to choose between the two of them and his — Enjolras.

“Who?” he asks weakly.

Joly frowns, and Grantaire finds his hand shifting under the table, the knife concealed in his sleeve dropping down into his palm.  

“You.”

“What?”  The knife clatters when he drops it to the floor.  “I’m not trying to — oh.”

He ducks under the table both to retrieve the knife and to hide his humiliating blush. When he surfaces they’re both staring at him and he breaks into a nervous laugh which only causes them to stare even more. “Aha.. ha…” he trails off and grabs hold of his drink, downs what’s left of it in one long gulp before saying, in a rush, “UmwellnotanymoreseeIsortoflivewithhimnow?”

This time it’s Bossuet’s turn to choke on his drink.

Joly wallops him on the back to try and clear his airway, only it’s a testament to Bossuet’s bad luck (and lack of balance) that it just sends him crashing into the table and all their drinks onto the floor.

“It was bound to happen,” Joly points out, when they’ve righted Bossuet and made sure that he’s not choking to death, “Seeing as you didn’t finish the job. The client’s probably found someone else to do what you couldn’t.”

Which just gets Grantaire’s back up because, “Hey, that implies I couldn’t do the job.” Joly and Bossuet give him a look.  “What? I could totally do the job! I could definitely kill Enjolras if I tried. I could go home and kill him right now and I wouldn’t even hesitate — though I mean, it would be a crime to get rid of someone who looks that good without painting him first and you should see how rumpled he looks in the morning and — oh God, I’m screwed, aren’t I?”

“Yep,” Joly replies cheerfully.

Grantaire groans, and falls forward to hit his head on the table.  “This is the _worst_.”

\- - -

They’re on their way back from the Musain, arguing over whether it’s possible for a modern government to not be corrupt, when the third assassination attempt comes. Only it’s not what Grantaire’s expecting at all.

He’d assumed it would be something professional, another attempt with a sniper rifle perhaps, someone who had the patience to wait up on rooftops and bide their time. What he didn’t expect was a kid who couldn’t have been a day over seventeen, pointing two guns at them when they turned to cut down an alley, yelling Enjolras’s name and then beginning to fire when Enjolras, the idiot, replies, “Yeah?”

“Jesus, are you for _real?”_ Grantaire demands, and when Enjolras tries to move, instinct telling him to run and seek cover, he snaps, “Stay _right there_. You step a foot out of place and _I’ll_ kill you.”

Enjolras freezes in place, his eyes wild and his whole body tense. Around them the air shifts, as bullets are fired and miss their mark. He looks terrified, and is painfully, completely silent.

“Huh,” says Grantaire, “Figures you would shut up when someone else points a gun at you.”

The kid continues to shoot both guns at them, the bullets going wide and far, not even coming close to grazing either of them.

Out of the corner of his eye Grantaire scopes the alley, looking for something that can be used as weaponry, and curses himself for coming out without his gun. His eyes land on a nearby metal dustbin and - well, it’ll do.  In a second he’s gone from Enjolras’s side, dodging the inaccurate bullets and curling his fingers around the edge of the lid.  His body turns on the spot with his motion, allowing him to step closer to their assailant, who is focused entirely on Enjolras. He doesn’t see Grantaire appearing next to him until he’s spinning the metal lid into his face with all the force his body can muster, and there’s the crunch of cartilage, and bone.

The kid yelps in pain, dropping the guns as he falls to the floor, holding his hands to his broken nose, slippery with blood.

“Word of advice: firing two guns at once?” Grantaire asks, “Looks cool in movies, absolutely pointless in real life.”

“Really?” Enjolras asks from somewhere behind him.

“What?” Grantaire asks, momentarily thrown, “Yes, really. It puts your aim off because you can’t focus on one point with two sights, not unless you can detach your eyes so they work independently and  — wait, shut up, that’s not the point.”  He turns back to the kid who is now cowering on the floor, occasionally poking at his nose and then wincing in pain. “You. Who paid you?”

The kid looks up, startled. “I don’t know!”

“Not a good enough answer.”

“I swear, I don’t know! The advert said to contact after—”

“Advert?”

The kid looks at him strangely and elaborates, “On Craigslist?”

Grantaire stares at him.  “You have got to be kidding me.”

\- - -

He’s not kidding.

* * *

**Skilled trade/craft**

**CASH JOB:** pest control

No experience necessary. Must provide own gear, including (but not limited to) guns, bullets, knives, poison, rope and choloroform. Principal will be expected to pay any medical fees which are incurred during the completion of this job, and will be responsible for any legal issues which may arise should they fail to succeed. This listing will not count as evidence in a court of law.

  * Location: NY/NJ/CT

  * Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.

  * Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.




**Qualification/Requirements** : The ideal candidate is independent, customer service/problem-solving oriented with exceptional time management skills, able to pay for their own funeral should things go south and has the desire to help promote a vision of a better world.

Contact poster only upon completion of job.  

 **Attached** : Enjolras.png

Posting ID: 40339551270

Posted: 2013-08-29, 3:42PM EDT

email to a friend

* * *

 

“Pest control?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire stares at him.

“I can’t believe out of everything in this advert, that’s what you pick up on.”

“It’s in the title,” Enjolras protests, leaning against Grantaire as he lifts a hand to point at the laptop screen, “It’s insulting.” Instead of moving away when he drops his hand he stays like that, warm body pressed to Grantaire’s side on the sofa.

“You know what else is insulting?” Grantaire asks, “Someone _trying to kill you_.”

Enjolras arches an eyebrow.

“Someone _else_ ,” Grantaire corrects loftily, and then, with a grin, “So are you saying you don’t mind someone trying to kill you if it’s me? Is this like some twisted form of stockholm syndrome?”

“Shut up,” says Enjolras, rolling his eyes. “Can you take the advert down?”

“Nope. I’m nowhere near good enough with a computer for that. Luckily, I know someone who is.”

\- - -

“Wow,” says Feuilly, as he walks into the apartment. “Who’d you have to kill to get a place like this?”

\- - - 

Taking the advert down doesn’t stop the assassination attempts, but it does lessen their number and frequency. It becomes a point of principle from then on for Grantaire to stop them all because there’s no way he’s being beaten by a bunch of craigslist wannabes - or even actual trained assassins, because he worked damn hard to be the best assassin this side of the Atlantic and he’s not about to lose his title now.

However he’s only one man, and it’s not exactly easy having to deal with all these attempts on Enjolras’s life, so to make things easier, he starts to train Enjolras in basic self-defence.

Which basically amounts to adding some physical sparring to their verbal, and Grantaire having to give himself absolutely ridiculous handicaps because Enjolras is really, really not a naturally athletic person. Case in point: he’s currently wearing a blindfold as they argue Kant and whether moral norms are based on human nature, and he’s still able to knock Enjolras off his feet, sending him stumbling forwards.

Grantaire’s arms slide around his waist easily to catch him - because even if this whole exercise is about how easy he is to kill, he doesn’t want to actually kill him - and then suddenly his breathing’s all tight because he can feel Enjolras against him.  His hands, entirely of their own accord, slide under the soft fabric of Enjolras’s shirt, find the smooth skin of his back, and Enjolras’s breathing hitches, making Grantaire want to tear the blindfold off so he can see his face.

Which is of course, when their landlord walks in. Amidst all the thwarted assassination attempts, trying to teach Enjolras how to fight and arguing with him about how he’s wrong about everything, they’ve somehow managed to forget to pay the rent again.

Their landlord takes one look at them, sweaty and breathing heavy on the floor, Grantaire still with a blindfold wrapped around his eyes and a very frustrated Enjolras in his lap, and goes, “I still don’t want to know.”

They pay him six months’ rent with the money Grantaire got from his last job and Grantaire pretends not to notice how Enjolras can’t meet his eyes.

\- - -

They don’t talk about the time they got locked in a broom closet in the Musain for three hours when hiding from another assassin and Enjolras lost his shirt.

\- - -

The next attempt is a letterbomb that does little more than explode in Grantaire’s hand, singing off half of one eyebrow and causing him to drop the mug of coffee he’s holding.

"Okay," he says, brushing ash onto the floor. "That's it, I'm fucking done."

"And you weren't before?" Enjolras asks, glancing at him over the back of the sofa.

It’s a testament to the strangeness of their lives now that he doesn’t even bat an eyelid when there’s another assassination attempt, just carries on flicking through TV channels.

"Before, I tolerated the half-hearted attempts at killing you,” Grantaire explains, “Because I understand and appreciate that everyone has to start somewhere. I don’t think taking a hit that’s posted on craigslist is necessarily the way to go about it, but everyone needs a chance at their first job.”

“Right.”

“But this,” and here he gestures at the ash, coffee and shards of what was once his mug that cover the floor, “This is ridiculous. That was my favourite mug.”

He goes on the offensive and decides to cut this off at the source, by finding and dispatching the client.

\- - -

Grantaire becomes a regular feature at the Musain, and actually becomes part of their little band of revolutionaries, though he spends most of his time engaged in drinking competitions with Bahorel and occasionally shouting out, “SOURCE!” or “I OBJECT!” just to keep Enjolras on his toes.

His arguments with Enjolras are usually kept to their walks home at night, most of the others not even realising that they’re friends, but occasionally they seep on over into the Musain, when Enjolras is being exceptionally optimistic about how he can fix the world.  Like tonight.

“Of course you don’t agree,” says Enjolras, and everyone is quiet as they watch them, but for Grantaire it’s like the whole world has disappeared apart from the two of them. “You’re incapable of believing in a better world.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe in it,” Grantaire replies, “It’s just that I don’t think it’s possible. I’d love to live in the world you describe, one based on equality, where the government actually listens to its citizens and makes decisions based on the good of the people but thousands of years of history have taught us that power corrupts, no matter who you are.  And people will do anything to stop themselves losing that power, especially if someone threatens their stability.  Case in point, someone is already trying to kill you, and—”

The Musain erupts.  

“Someone is what—”

“No they’re not—”

“Why would they—”

“That’s ridiculous—”

And louder than them all, at least to Grantaire’s ears, is Courfeyrac going, “So _that’s_ why he’s moved in with you.” Grantaire sees Enjolras turn to look at him, the turn of his mouth as he asks him to clarify what he meant, then Courfeyrac says, “Well I mean, it’s not like you even like him, right?”

Which is just — He shouldn’t be — It’s not like — The chair scrapes across the floor as he gets to his feet and the sounds of the Musain fade into the distance as he walks away.  It’s stupid, he knows, to be upset about this, to be hurt by a few careless words from Courfeyrac, especially when he is an assassin hired to kill, but.

He’s not sure how long he’s out walking or where he goes, but his traitorous feet eventually lead him right back to Enjolras’s flat.

The door to the apartment is open, which immediately sends off warning bells in Grantaire’s mind. Since the alley incident he’s taken to walking around fully armed at all times (before now he’d been rather miffed that Enjolras hadn’t once utilised the opportunity to ask “Is that a gun in your pocket?” but now he figures it’s because he _doesn’t actually like him_ ) so he reaches under his jacket for his gun, sliding the safety off as he pads into the room.

It looks like someone upturned the place. Violently.

Grantaire’s heart does a sharp dive in his chest.

He tries to ignore it as he walks further into the room, gun held tight in his hand as he looks for any signs of movement. He doesn’t have to go far before he sees the body tied to the chair, slumped forwards but still breathing, and he barely has time to think _that’s not Enjolras_ before there’s the creak of a floorboard behind him and something smashes into the back of his head.

Everything goes black for a few terrifying, absolute seconds.

When he comes to he’s lying on the floor near one of the clock face windows, and everything is blurry.

“Oh, fuck, Grantaire, sorry!” someone who is decidedly not an assassin says, and there are warm hands on his temple, thumbs tracing his cheekbones. The movement above him blurs and then refocuses, shifting colours until he sees Enjolras’s concerned face leaning over him.

“Did it hurt?” he finds himself asking.

“Huh? No, of course not, _I_ hit _you_  — do you have a concussion? Do you know who you are? What’s your nam—”

“I meant when you fell from heaven — you _hit_ me?”

“I didn’t know who you were!” Enjolras protests, as the world finally stops spinning, showing his worried face in clear focus as he leans over him. “You disappeared from the Musain and I tried following but I couldn’t find you and so I decided to wait for you at home only that’s where I found this guy and--”

“What guy?” Grantaire demands, immediately on high alert, his body reacting quickly to the threat of danger, causing him to sit up and push Enjolras over to one side and behind him instinctively, a defensive position. “Where did he go? Did he hurt — wait.”

His eyes slowly travel to where he saw the guy in the chair before, the guy who is still sat there, slumped forwards against the ropes binding him, passed-out. “That guy?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras replies, “I knocked him out like you showed me and tied him up because I didn’t know what to do with him. Then he woke up and started yelling at me and I tried to reason with him and, well. He didn’t listen, so I knocked him out again and.” He stops and blinks and shrugs — and it is really fucking ridiculous that this is the exact moment Grantaire realises he’s in love.

“Oh,” he says, a warm feeling unfolding in his chest, because Enjolras is alive and Enjolras is okay and Enjolras tried to come and find him after he left the Musain.  Also, he knocked a grown man out and tied him to a chair.  “I am very proud of you.”

Enjolras tries not to beam at that, but it doesn’t really work.  “What now, then?” he asks.

“Now,” says Grantaire, “We stop this.”

He hauls himself to his feet, wobbling only slightly as his balance shifts, and then heads over to where the assassin is tied up. A quick search finds the guy’s phone and he pulls it out, scrolling to the last number and pressing dial. On the fourth ring someone picks up. A very familiar someone. It’s the voice of a man incredibly high up in government, a man whose reputation would not survive being called out on hiring assassins to kill young blond revolutionaries because they called him out on all his political pullshit.

“Is it done?”

“No.”

There’s a slight pause and then: “Enjolras?”

“No, but part of you is going to wish it was.  I am much, much worse, and I am just about done with your bullshit. Craigslist adverts, really? Did you not get the idea when every assassin you sent after him _died?_ Did you not maybe think that possibly it was a sign you should stop? That there was someone else out there, someone better, protecting him?”

“Look I—”

“No, you don’t get to talk.  You send one more person after Enjolras, and I’m coming after you myself. Got it?”

There’s a brief pause and then: “You’re not going to kill me now?”

“What, and deny myself the satisfaction of watching Enjolras tear you apart politically?” he grins. “Please. He’ll kill you in a much more satisfying way than I ever could. See you at the funeral.”

When he cancels the call, Enjolras is staring at him. The intense look makes him uncomfortable, causing him to look away, and his gaze lands on the assassin still tied to the chair.  “I’ll get rid of him,” he says, beginning to unfasten the ropes, and hauls the guy over his shoulder before Enjolras can protest.  He doesn’t flee, exactly, but he gets out of the apartment as quickly as he can.

\- - -

The guy wakes up when he gets downstairs, takes one look at him and goes, “Oh fuck, sorry. Didn’t realise you were involved,” and promises that the job is done in exchange for his life.  Which Grantaire was going to give him anyway, but it’s always nice to get an ego boost from your reputation.

He heads back into the apartment, and it’s only when he’s heading up in the lift, when the adrenaline rush starts to wear off, that he remembers what happened at the Musain. It builds trepidation in his gut, his fight or flight instinct telling him to run instead, but he swallows it down and heads inside.

Enjolras is righting a lampshade as he walks in, sets it down on what’s left of the coffee table as Grantaire walks in.  

“It’s alright, I get it, I overheard Courfeyrac. Just a means to an end, right?” Grantaire asks, looking anywhere but at him, “And now it’s sorted, and you’re safe, so I guess I’ll—”

“Grantaire.”

He makes a noise of acknowledgement, but still looks anywhere but at Enjolras, who sighs.

“You’re not a means to an end, Grantaire.  Courfeyrac was wrong, and if you’d just stuck around in the Musain for a bit longer instead of storming out in a hissy fit—”

“Excuse you, it was not a hissy fit, it was an extremely manly—”

“You would have heard me say that I do like you,” Enjolras continues over him. Which is just.

“What?”

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras, and he sighs again, like he just can’t believe this. “We share an apartment. We sleep in the same bed. We cuddle on the sofa. When have I ever given you the impression that I didn’t like you?”

“Oh,” says Grantaire, and then, “Wait - did you like me before I started saving your life, or after I started saving your life? Because that seems like a pretty important distinction. As in, do you only like me because you think I’m some sort of knight in shining armour?

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says again, and he still sounds exasperated, but he also sounds amused, and he doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by the fact that they’re currently standing in the wreck of what was once his apartment.  “You tried to kill me - several times -  and I let you move into my apartment.”

“Well, yeah,” Grantaire admits, and he frowns. “Why’d you do that, anyway? I could have still killed you.”

“Yeah, you could have, but I didn’t think you would.”

“Why not?”

“Because I believe in you.”

“Oh,” says Grantaire, and he’s pretty sure his lungs are failing, because he’s not sure he remembers how to breathe.

“You’re an idiot,” Enjolras says, and kisses him.

\- - -

Years later, when people ask how he and Enjolras met, Grantaire will tell them that it was love at first sight.

(What he won't mention is that the sight was through the telescopic lens of a sniper rifle pointed at Enjolras's heart.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, [firing two guns at once](http://www.cracked.com/article_20453_6-spectacularly-bad-ideas-movies-convinced-you-are-badass.html), and I know nothing about craigslist. I did not think this fic could get any more ridiculous but it did. 
> 
> I am still on tumblr if you want to come say hi~


End file.
